The Drawbacks of Perfection
by Jul3s
Summary: Fast is fine, but accuracy is final. You need to learn to be slow in a hurry. Written for Team Angst on the LJ community Numb3rsWriteOff


I've been kicked out of my job the day _"The Fifth Man"_ aired, so I've been struggling a bit these last few months to find my musae again (amongst other things). And this is to prove, for a change, that I can do deadlines--two days ago I didn't even know I would write this story.

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**The Drawbacks of Perfection**

by Jules

_"It's a paper target. It's a little different with a real person."_

Charlie Eppes had never thought that his brother's words from years ago would one day come back to haunt him. Years ago, that day on the gun range with Don, he'd seen it as field work, just like both Larry and Edgerton had suggested. Merely a part of the mechanics he'd needed to understand. But it had been a game, man against paper silhouette one hundred yards away with the element of danger completely eliminated. Of course, being a professor of mathematics, he'd never expected to be forced to fire a gun. It certainly wasn't part of the job description.

The shooting range was fairly deserted on this Wednesday night and there was a reason why Charlie picked this time to be here. Not many people around considerately diminished the chance of being recognized. He could've used the FBI range without paying for his hour of practise, but he'd decided against it after his first time there alone, when he'd realized that other agents he'd never met in his life before stopped to watch him shoot. His reputation preceded him as it obviously seemed entertaining to many that Don Eppes' little brother, the nerdy professor, had turned out to be a pretty decent shot. So he rather came here to this little public range, handed over his $25 and pretended he was just another of those citizens who wanted to feel comfortable with a gun in their hands in case the need to defend themselves might arise at some point in their life. But even here sometimes law enforcement people turned up and Charlie had learned through trial and error on which nights the chance of that not happening was the greatest. Being a mathematician certainly had his upsides. Furthermore, no one here ever questioned him when he requested a certain stall and he was grateful for that.

Don had one of those euphemisms he'd sometimes used whenever their father became upset over the violence in Don's working life. He wasn't being shot at, he was in the vicinity of shooting, he'd say. Charlie had always liked that expression and had adopted it for himself over the years. Math professors usually didn't get shot at, but being a consultant for the FBI, he sometimes was in the vicinity of shooting. A nice security blanket and it worked, at least most of the time. Nathan Crane had shot at him, but he'd been just a victim of chance, it could've been anyone who'd been standing there. Alec Shane had walked into the FBI office and started a shooting spree, but he'd never aimed for him, even though one of his rounds had come much too close for comfort.

Of course, all that had changed when Taylor's men went after him. He'd been the intended target, they'd known who they'd been running off the street and those bullets fired at him had been meant to kill him. And suddenly, his security blanket had been worth nothing, no words had been enough to ward off the intense fear that realization had brought into his life.

He swallowed against the rising sense of discomfort the memory procured and stepped into the designated stall. He'd been here so often now that the necessary motions nearly felt like a ritual. His jacket went on the hook to his right, the locked armory box and the target sheet on the shelf in front of him. Picking up the sheet, he clipped it onto the hanger and rode it back, flicking down the switch to stop it at random. He slid the safety goggles over his eyes and ran his fingers through his curls before putting on the ear muffs and his world became tinted yellow and muffled, the sense of surreality that provided not at all unwelcome. Opening the box, he took out the magazine and began to feed it with rounds.

He'd never denied the contentment over his performance on the shooting range during the FBI training. After all, he'd made a fool out of himself for two consecutive days in almost each and every other task he had to perform, so finally excelling at something had certainly boosted his self-esteem. And not only that. Don had always been a good shot and Don had been the one to introduce him to shooting. His brother had taught him the basics and in a weird feeling of brotherly worship, Charlie had always liked that he was so good at it.

He inhaled deeply, closed his eyes and slowly let out his breath through his nose, trying to relax muscles that had involuntary bunched up the moment he'd entered the premises. And then, he did it again because he'd never succeeded on the first try in the past three weeks and tonight was no exception. Maybe one of these days, he'd be able to take up either David or Colby on their offer to accompany him here. But he knew it would still be a while.

During the FBI training, he'd told himself that proficiency was the key to everything. Everyone had always told him to aim for center mass if he had to shoot, but Charlie had wanted options. He'd wanted the skill to be able to decide whether to wound or kill, not that he'd ever wanted to kill in the first place. And so he'd learned it, meticulously. Standing there facing a paper target in the distance and without any threat in sight, he'd achieved that. With a greater accuracy than even he'd thought he could. And in the weeks and months after that, during few times he'd gone to the range to shoot a few rounds, because he was a firm believer that exercise was important in anything he did, he'd honed that ability. Not aiming for the center like they'd been taught during training, never trying for a high score but picking specific spots on the target, deluding himself with the notion that when the time came, he'd be prepared. Accuracy was final, he'd said so himself.

Picking up the gun, he jammed in the magazine, glad that the ear protectors muffled the sound that action produced. He racked back the slide to load the first round into the chamber and closed his eyes, the weight of the weapon in his hand greater than it should've been. Everything inside him screamed to put the gun down and run, but he'd battled that feeling for three weeks now and wasn't going to give in. It wasn't leading him anywhere, he had to face this, as long as it would take him to beat the demons. Without another pause, he brought his body into the correct stance, rose the Glock to eye level and squeezed off fifteen rounds.

The effect was still the same it had been every time before. The moment he squinted at the target to see where his shots had landed, his stomach roiled and he dashed off to the rest room.

~000~

Charlie let the cold water trickle over his hands while he looked at himself in the mirror. It definitely was good to be here on a very slow night, occupying the stall nearest to the rest room. He'd learned that lesson the very first time he'd been here three weeks ago, exactly one week after he, Charles Edward Eppes, Professor of Applied Mathematics, had killed a man.

He and Don had been in the parking lot of a downtown diner on their way to the car, bickering and bantering like they often did when times were good. Neither of them had expected the danger. Even Don, whose instincts usually were top-notch, had realized too late that the car slowing down beside them would be a deathly threat only seconds later.

Charlie had learned that moment that theory was a wonderful thing as long as it remained just that. In theory, he should've scampered for cover. Should've gotten out his cell and should've called for help. In reality, it hadn't even required any thinking to reach for Don's gun after he'd made sure his brother was still alive. And he'd learned just then that training himself to react what he'd perceived as the right way had been futile. Under the burden of real and imminent danger, he'd just reacted, running on adrenaline and fear. It had been so incredibly easy to aim for maximum damage and to pull the trigger. Without any training, maybe he would've just aimed in a general direction, if he'd picked up the gun at all. With training, he'd only fired one shot that found its intended target and had proven fatal.

In the minutes afterwards, with the sirens already growing louder in the distance, he'd sat there beside his brother, pressing his hands onto the wound to stop the bleeding and he'd caught Don's eyes, dazed and filled with pain and shock and something else that had Charlie reeling with a sudden wave of nausea: regret. Only much later, when the ambulance had arrived and blue and red lights were flickering over the scene and the EMT was wrapping an emergency blanket around him, he'd realized what had happened, what he'd done.

But then, it was over. Don was home recuperating and would return to desk duty the following week. The remaining shooters had been apprehended and would face trial and at least a decade of jail time. The investigation had cleared him of any wrongdoing, his shooting being determined an act of self-defense.

And yet, it would never be over. Accuracy was final.

The End

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_This fic was written for the Angst vs Schmoop Challenge at the LJ community **numb3rswriteoff**. After you've read the fic, please rate it by voting in the poll located here. (_http:// www. livejournal . com / poll / ?id=1419686_ - Without the spaces; your vote will be anonymous.) Rate the fic on a scale of 1 - 10 (10 being the best) using the following criteria: how well the fic fit the prompt, how angsty [or schmoopy] the fic was, and how well you enjoyed the fic. When you're done, please check out the other challenge fic at **numb3rswriteoff**. Thank you!_


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